Just Another Day
by AfraidOfFalling
Summary: It's Halloween, 1997.  Just another day, right?  No slash.


Pfft. As if I could create a world of characters so fantastic as Ms. Rowling's—I don't own HP.

To those of you who are waiting for Come Together—I'm working on it! Multi-chapter fanfics just take a lot more work than one-shots...

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Just Another Day

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He didn't want to get up from behind Dumbledore's desk. The sooner he stood, the sooner he would have to show himself in the Great Hall.

He didn't think he could do it. Not this second. Not this minute, or this hour. God—not on this day—on this year.

Alas, he was headmaster, and his presence was required. With a sigh he stood, shaking out the wrinkles in his shadowy black robes, rubbing his ebony wand with his right thumb, hoping desperately to find comfort in the only thing in his world that had ever chosen him.

He strode to the door, his face pale but controlled, a slight scowl turning his lips. With a nonverbal spell, the door swung open, and he left the Headmaster's office, flicking his gaze briefly toward the largest portrait as he shut the door behind him.

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The Great Hall was dark and somber. The Carrows slouched at the High Table while the other staff members attempted to ignore their presence, and the students' voices made only a low murmur—a far cry from their behavior only a year earlier—as they ate carefully and fearfully. The ceiling was dull and cloudy, and the torch-lit Hall was strewn with deep, long shadows, and Snape almost doubled over in pain at the emptiness that clawed through his bones. Still, he kept his composure and took his seat, and forced the seemingly-tasteless food down his throat, gazing imperially over the room and sneering in false triumph.

His fist clenched when he saw that the Gryffindors were up to something. Fools, he thought wearily. Pick your battles—surely this is not one worth fighting. Save your energy, save your courage, save the blood that runs through your young veins, for I guarantee we will all need it later.

Neville Longbottom did not hear his unspoken plea—or if, by some miracle, he did, he chose to ignore it. He nodded to the others—Weasley, Lovegood, and the rest of their Army—and within moments the Hall exploded in color—orange and gold and red—fall's colors in all their glory. Glowing pumpkins hung suspended over the students, while multicolored bats fluttered near the Hall's ceiling. Confetti fell continuously like snowflakes, soon covering everyone with a papery coating of autumn. The Carrows seemed surprised; the other teachers seemed torn between delight and apprehension. There was silence in the Hall; every face was turned toward the Carrows and Snape.

Snape stood slowly, his eyes locked on Longbottom's, who stared defiantly back at him.

"Is there something you would like to say, Mr. Longbottom?" His voice was low and dangerous.

Longbottom stood: his shoulders back, his chin up, and Snape absentmindedly marveled—even while the boy was behaving in an utterly foolish manner—at how much he had grown.

"Well, you see, Snape," Longbottom replied calmly, not flinching as Amycus stood. "Today is Halloween. And I thought today was a good day to remind you all that you have not won." Alecto stood now, as well, but Longbottom paid the Carrows no heed as he continued, "On this day sixteen years ago, Harry Potter defeated You-Know-Who. He defeated your precious little master, and he's still out there, and he's going to win again. This time, he'll win for good."

"You filthy little blood-traitor," snarled Alecto, "you don't know nothing! That Potter brat never defeated nobody, and his limp body will be dragged over the stones of the Ministry within a month, and if you keep spittin' all that hogwash, you're soon to follow!"

"_Crucio!_" Growled Amycus, and Longbottom fell to the stone floor, unable to suppress the screams of his agony. Snape stood silently for two long seconds before placing a hand on Amycus' arm. Amycus reluctantly lowered his wand, and Longbottom's screams subsided. Still trembling, the boy forced himself to his feet, his courage undiminished. A sneer reminiscent of Snape's own was upon Longbottom's face as he stared at the headmaster.

Snape calmly looked back. With a single flick of his wrist, the Hall was plunged back into its funeral-like atmosphere. He spoke in what was hardly more than a whisper, yet his voice carried easily throughout the silent hall. "Longbottom, Weasley, Lovegood, and anyone else who wishes to claim responsibility for this disruption, please join me in the Entrance Hall immediately." Nobody was fooled by the word "please." He swept away, followed by nearly thirty students—Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws. They assembled quietly outside of the Great Hall, their faces turned toward Snape, challenging him, while his gaze flickered over them, cataloguing the names and faces—to remember, to protect, to be wary of and for.

"You think you're so clever," he hissed, and the nearest Hufflepuff unconsciously flinched backward. "But you're all just fools, idiots. What did you expect to accomplish? What did you think would happen? Or do you simply enjoy getting yourselves punished?" Eyes flashed toward Longbottom, who was trying to hide the continued trembling from the aftereffects of the Cruciatus. "Ten points from each of you," Snape continued, and the gems within three hourglasses flew up, leaving Gryffindor empty and the other two nearly so. "And three detentions each. Your assignments will be delivered to you tomorrow morning." Nobody grumbled—every student was still and silent. "None of you shall partake in dinner for the rest of tonight, but you are required to sit quietly in the Hall until dinner is over. You are dismissed."

The Army members turned and marched back into the Hall, heads still held high, and returned to their places at their tables. But as Snape made to return to the Hall also, he felt a hand on his arm, and he turned to see Longbottom glaring resolutely at him.

"You know it's true, what I said," Longbottom told him. "Harry beat your little master on this night sixteen years ago—" He didn't get a chance to finish, for Snape pinned him forcefully against the wall, leaving Longbottom struggling for breath.

"_Potter_ didn't beat anyone that night," Snape spat as he restricted the boy's airflow. Snape's nostrils were flared; blood was rushing through him in an angry torrent. "_Potter_ had _nothing_ to do with _anything_!" He suddenly realized what he was doing and released Longbottom, stepping away hastily. Longbottom sidled along the wall away from him, massaging his throat gingerly and throwing one last glare toward Snape before stepping back into the Great Hall.

When he had gone, Snape collapsed against the wall and tried to calm himself. How dare the rotten child say such a thing? Potter was not the hero. Potter had been an infant. No, it was _she_ who had defeated him—_she _alone. And now she was dead, dead due to the master of the pathetic, filthy specimens that currently were making pigs of themselves up at the High Table, and Snape—Snape was utterly alone, for there had only ever been one other personin Snape's life besides _her_ who had ever cared even remotely for Snape, and that man was dead by Snape's own hand.

Pull yourself together, he thought fiercely. You're alone—what's new? It's just another day; it shouldn't hurt any more than yesterday or tomorrow.

Strangely, he thought as he collected himself and reentered the Hall, he somehow wished the decorations could have remained. Even though he had loathed Dumbledore's Halloween feasts, he realized he detested their absence even more. The darkness of this Halloween night only solidified this loss, this grief, this unbearable solitude.

Perhaps someday, things would be different—probably not for Snape, but maybe for his students. It hinged on how well he and Dumbledore's other chess pieces carried out their given assignments.

So Snape shut those emotions away—hid them under an expertly-crafted mask—and kept acting his part, hoping against hope that he would adequately serve his two true masters.

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